Monday, 7:09 p.m.Location: The Ricci Compound – Dining Room (now repurposed as a war table)
Family meetings at the Ricci house always start the same way.
Vince brings the folders, Frankie brings caffeine, Marco forgets to bring pants that aren't gym shorts, and Matteo looks like he's regretting his entire DNA strand.
Tonight? No different. Except for the fact that someone on YouTube was accusing us of running a mafia motel, and Dad had officially called a code red.
The long dining table was cleared of pasta dishes and replaced with Vince's laptop, three phones on speaker, and enough espresso to reanimate a corpse. (Possibly part of the plan.)
I sat at the far end, sandwiched between Marco (who was texting someone named "👀🍑💦") and Matteo (who had two stress ball syringes and was definitely using both under the table).
Luca walked in last.
He didn't say anything at first. Just stood at the head of the table, staring at all of us like a disappointed CEO on the finale of a reality show.
Then he said, "So. We're internet famous now."
No one laughed.
Frankie tapped her phone. "The video has sixty thousand views and climbing. The guy's name is Midas Montgomery. He's got an audience and a vendetta. The motel was just his appetizer. He's already sniffing around the pizza place."
Marco looked up. "Wait, like the actual pizza place?"
"Yes, Marco. The one with the oven and the crust and the money in the walls."
Vince leaned forward. "He's been escalating for a few weeks. Mostly background noise—until now. He has a following, and the kind of followers who file anonymous tips to the FBI just for fun."
Dad nodded. Calm. Too calm. Which was terrifying.
"Is he connected?"
"No," Vince said. "Not directly. But his younger brother goes to Saint Gabriel's. And Emma Dante—"
"Of course," I muttered.
"—has been feeding him hints. She thinks it's funny."
"It isn't," Dad said, voice going low and sharp.
Frankie jumped in. "We can't touch him. Not yet. Not unless he crosses a serious line. Anything that happens to him now, and we look guilty. And we are not guilty."
"Of course not," Marco muttered. "The body just decomposed real fast."
Vince didn't look up from his laptop. "Marco."
"Right. Allegedly."
Dad finally sat down, elbows on the table, and looked at me.
Which was rude, by the way.
"I want you to keep your ears open," he said. "You're already at school. If this Montgomery kid's brother slips anything, or if Emma starts stirring the pot, I want to know."
"Why me?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
"Because you're invisible."
I crossed my arms. "You keep saying that like it's a compliment."
"It is."
"Then I'm very flattered and also incredibly screwed."
He ignored that.
"Izzy and Noah?" he asked. "You trust them?"
"With everything," I said.
"Good. Keep them close. If this Midas guy makes a move on campus, or starts pushing for interviews, we'll need a way to spin it. But I don't want Ricci on his thumbnails again."
Frankie spoke up. "Too late. His next video is called 'What's Really Happening Behind Ricci Pizza's Back Door?'"
Marco grinned. "Sounds like a porn title."
Frankie threw a coaster at his head. "Do not give Midas ideas."
I exhaled through my nose, slowly. The same way one does before committing a mild felony. Then I said, "Okay, what if we leaned into it?"
The room looked at me.
I mean everyone. Even Dad.
Frankie blinked. "What?"
"Not the porn part," I clarified. "Jesus. I mean—use your platform."
Frankie narrowed her eyes. "I am using my platform. I'm already in a PR war with three YouTubers and an Omega who thinks wearing three corsets at once is a personality."
"No," I said. "I mean reframe the narrative."
I stood up and started pacing because that's what you do when your brain decides to have a full marketing campaign at 7:15 p.m. in a mafia compound with meatball grease still on the walls.
"Okay. Midas is getting views because he's selling a mystery, right? Everyone wants to believe there's something shady behind the pizza place or the motel or whatever."
"Because there is," Matteo said.
"Allegedly." I pointed at him. "But what if we make it look like it's not shady—just quirky. Like, family-run, kind of weird, old-school, local-business vibes."
Vince gave me a look. "People don't just stop being suspicious because you throw an Instagram filter on organized crime."
"Right, but they do stop asking questions when they feel like they're in on the joke."
Frankie suddenly perked up. "Wait. Are you saying we troll him back on TikTok?"
I nodded. "Exactly. You're already popular. If we start flooding the algorithm with our version of the story—behind-the-scenes bakery clips, 'day in the life' videos, weird employee interviews—we can push his content down and control the narrative."
"People love mafia-core aesthetic," Frankie muttered. "I can hashtag that."
Marco leaned forward. "Yeah, but what about the actual money part?"
I grinned. "Glad you asked."
I pulled my notebook out of my backpack and flipped to the page I wasn't going to show anyone until I turned twenty-five or got arrested—whichever came first.
"Here's the plan," I said, and slid it to the center of the table.
Page Title: Operation Cannoli Wash™
Marketing Funnel – Frankie boosts family brand with influencer content.
Vlogs, fake 'found footage,' ironic mafia aesthetic. We go viral but look cute.
Customer Loyalty Program – Laundromat gets a punch card. Fifth wash gets a free cannoli.
They think it's a gimmick. Actually a front.
Payroll Soft Launder – Use cash-heavy 'tip jar' system to run payouts through bakery.
Disguise overtime as catering work.
Business Plan – Rebrand the pizza shop as a "heritage dining experience."
Offer overpriced rustic garlic knots.
Diversion Accounts – Shell company tied to Frankie's influencer brand.
Money flows through "paid collabs."
The IRS won't look if they think it's sponsored content.
...
There was a long pause.
Then Frankie whispered, "I could launch a merch line."
Matteo rubbed his face. "Are we really talking about laundering money with garlic knots?"
Dad looked at me. For a second—just a second—I saw it.
Approval.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… Alpha-grade acknowledgement.
"You'll handle it, and the other main operations." he said, sliding the notebook back to me.
And just like that, I was no longer just the Beta nobody at the table. I was in.